Always and Forever
by PerfectDisaster22
Summary: They are souls who travel together through their incarnations, learning lessons in love, loss, and life. These are their stories.
1. Second Chances

**Author's Note**: Several months ago, I got an idea for… well, not exactly a story. More a collection of loosely connected one-shots. The one-shots would follow a group of souls through various incarnations, as they all grow and learn and live together. Lo and behold, this story was born. The one-shots don't really follow any particular order and I have no idea when I'll be updating. I might use the same time periods more than once, and some of the one-shots may seem similar, but when/if that happens, I'll most likely have a reason for it. This is kind of my escape story; when I'm stuck with everything else, I get ideas for this. Don't ask where these ideas come from; half the time, I don't even know. Take this one-shot, for example. I was looking through Japanese baby names and pictures of _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_ when I came up with this.

From chapter to chapter, I'll keep a list going of which soul is which; these same people are going to keep popping up, even though my main focus is on two particular souls [the traditional definition of soul mates applies to these two]. Certain character traits will remain consistent from one-shot to one-shot, and their relationships will kind of echo each other from lifetime to lifetime. Yay soul families.

**Disclaimer**: So, I'm really not that knowledgeable about medieval Japan. A lot of this information comes from Wikipedia, and I twisted some things to suit my own purposes [for example, the Yagyu and Hanzo clans properly belong to the 1500s, not the 1300s like I've got]. Please don't sic historians on me; I _know_ I'm doing things in weird ways.

However, for once I actually do own all of these characters! That's really kind of exciting to me. Oh, except Kasume. She's inspired by and belongs to my friend Sandra.

**Chapter One**: Second Chances

* * *

><p>Kyoto, Japan. April 1324.<p>

The moon rode high in the inky-black midnight sky, which was dotted with a million stars. A night like this should be spent either in sleep, or in sitting out in the spring air beneath the cherry trees, lost in thought. Instead, Kaito, the head of the revered Hanzo daimyo, sat in his study with the light of a few candles, leaning over the latest batch of diplomatic papers to come from nearby Nara.

For the last six months, Kaito had been secretly communicating with his neighbor to the southeast. The Hanzo and Yagyu clans had been rivals [and even outright enemies] for generations, battling for supremacy as samurai and ninjas, and angling for more power and influence over the affairs of imperial Japan. Kaito had come to the position of shogun more than ten years ago with the death of his formidable grandmother [his father had been the shogun by title only, having been a weak man and easily bent to the Old Woman's will], but it was only now that it looked like a lasting peace could finally be achieved between the long-feuding clans.

Not that Kaito could blame the Yagyu shogun for his hesitance to make peace. Shiro had come to the shogunate only a few years after Kaito. As young as Kaito had been, Shiro had been even younger, becoming the feudal lord of all the Yagyu at age 30, bypassing older family members for the title. It had taken Shiro years to gain the respect and loyalty of his clansmen, and even when he had finally earned his title, there was very little reason for him to trust overtures from the Hanzo. After all, the Hanzo had done Shiro a great wrong once, nearly twenty years ago now. From Shiro's constant, aggressively anti-Hanzo actions, it was a safe bet to believe that he had yet to forgive his old rivals for the injustice. Truly, it was surprising that Shiro was even willing to discuss a peace treaty, after all the bad blood between Shiro and Kaito's predecessors.

Then again, from nearly the beginning of their communication through these secret letters, Kaito had been offering to right the wrong his grandmother had done to Shiro. The price Kaito asked for in return was a lasting peace treaty, no more, no less. And finally, Shiro seemed to be ready to play ball. The communiqué Kaito held revealed that Shiro and a small contingent of Yagyu representatives would come to the Hanzo compound within the month to complete the peace negotiations.

Setting the letter down, Kaito smiled to himself. So, he had one month to prepare his brothers and his advisors for the peace talks. His wife Ume and sister Kasume would have a month to fuss over the state of the compound and the gardens. And they would all have one month to prepare the rest of the Hanzo family for the changes that were coming.

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><p>Kyoto, Japan. May 1324.<p>

Shiro was quiet as Kaito led him through the private family courtyard of the Hanzo compound. The courtyard was lovely, cobbled paths dotted with irises and orchids beneath the shade of cherry trees, still garlanded in fragrant blooms. But Shiro had little mind for the scenery, or for Kaito's comments about the meeting they had just adjourned. Instead, Shiro's mind was wandering, his thoughts filled with memories.

The first time he had ever seen this courtyard had been by moonlight. He had been sixteen years old, participating in his very first ninja raid. The mission had been botched, however, interrupted by the arrival of two young Hanzo girls. One of them had immediately called out for help, but the other had merely stood there, her eyes wide with shock. Even by the light of the weak moonlight, he had been able to see her blue eyes. Those eyes had stayed with him for years, watching him, haunting him. Had he been thinking clearly, her eyes should have alarmed him; none of the Hanzo had blue eyes. Blue eyes were a Yagyu trait. But he had thought nothing of it, instead concentrating solely on the expression in those large, lovely moonlit eyes. She had wanted to escape, to run, and he had wanted to set her free.

He had returned a few years later, part of an envoy sent by Yagyu Hideyoshi, then the shogun of the clan. The peace negotiations had fallen apart, as usual; the Old Woman, her puppet shogun of a son, and her detestable favorite grandson Akio [younger brother to Kaito] had ensured that. But Shiro had been unable to care, because it was in this courtyard that he had found _her_ again. He had found her beneath the blossoming cherry trees, deftly practicing with her katana. He had arrogantly engaged her in a quick bout, assuming her to be only a silly little Hanzo girl playing at a man's game. He had quickly been corrected; the girl was skilled in swordcraft. The peace negotiations had dragged on, but for Shiro the highlight of his days had been his stolen moments with _her_.

Her name was Misaki. He had been quick to learn that she was widely considered a disgrace within her family, because she was an unsanctioned child. Shockingly, she was the bastard of Hanzo Suzume, the sister of the Hanzo shogun, by Yagyu Hideyoshi- Shiro's distant uncle, the man who had adopted Shiro as his son and heir. She was two years his junior, but more mature than any girl he had ever known. Fiercely intelligent, quick witted and humorous, a determined and courageous warrior, but also innately courteous and ladylike, she had captured his heart with absolutely no effort at all.

The Yagyu had left the Hanzo compound with the peace treaty in tatters [again], but Shiro had continued to sneak back to Kyoto for the next two years, stealing precious hours with her. He never took her to bed or impugned her honor, but they had pledged to each other, fully intending to run away and marry.

It had all been destroyed in one night, one single moment. Misaki had been dragged away in disgrace by her cousin Akio, Shiro threatened with death if he approached the city again. Misaki had been cruelly punished for consorting with the enemy, and Shiro's hatred for the Hanzo had been born.

Upon his return, Shiro's relatives had been quick to tell Hideyoshi about his young heir's dalliance with Misaki. Almost before he could draw a breath, Shiro had found himself married off to an "appropriate" girl, the daughter of a neighboring shogun. Satomi had given Shiro two fine sons, Haruto and Noboru. She had been a suitable and competent wife, but Shiro had never loved her, liked her, or even desired her company. She had been nearly invisible to him, perfectly content to live her life estranged from him. He hadn't even been able to summon any grief when she died, two years after Noboru was born; instead, he had merely felt free.

Despite Shiro's "misguided overtures" with the daughter he had never claimed, Hideyoshi still supported Shiro as his heir. Upon the old man's death nine years ago, Shiro had taken up the mantle of the shogunate with a single-minded determination. And he continued the mission he had begun the moment Misaki was lost to him- making life hell for the Hanzo. He had harassed them and bullied them into battle at every chance he could. In one memorable battle, he had met Akio on the field, and he had finally taken revenge for himself and Misaki, cutting the despicable bastard's head off in one clean stroke.

It was rather strange to find himself here again, engaged in another round of peace talks, he reflected. He had come full circle, back to where everything had begun to make peace with his lifelong enemies. What strange turns life took…

Suddenly, all thought, all breath, all energy left Shiro. He stopped mid-step, his heart skipping a beat. He stood frozen, catapulted back in time and feeling nineteen again as the entire world seemed to slow.

"Misaki," he whispered, hardly aware that he had spoken.

She was walking beneath the cherry trees, her beautiful face upturned to the sun's warmth. Her raven hair was drawn off her face and neatly coiled in a bun, revealing a face that looked utterly unchanged. She wore the distinctive dress of a Shinto miko now, but she looked frozen in time. He could almost swear that for her, no time at all had passed; that she had remained frozen at seventeen, just waiting for his return. And yet, he could see the toll time had taken on her; he could practically see how her spirit had been dampened, nearly completely quenched. What had she endured in the last eighteen years, what terrible loneliness and sorrow had dampened her fire?

Kaito watched Shiro as he stared at the lost love of his youth, before laying a gentle hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Go to her, Shiro," he said quietly.

Shiro needed no further encouragement.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, it was truly difficult to find a place to <em>breathe<em> within this compound, to say nothing of finding a place to be alone and think in peace.

The compound had been in an uproar for the past month. One night during a meal at which the entire family was present, Kaito had stood and asked for everyone's attention. He had announced that a delegation of Yagyu were coming to discuss the terms of a peace negotiation, and that the alliance would be sealed with marriage. But more than that, Kai would not say, not even to his beloved Ume. Even Kai's sister Kasume had been unable to wheedle further information out of him… or rather, if either woman did know more, they weren't saying.

And from the moment Kaito made his announcement, Misaki hadn't had a single moment's peace. Family members had come to her at all hours, begging her to speak to the ancestors and divine spirits, hoping their daughter would be chosen for the illustrious marriage.

A rumor had spread through the compound like wildfire- that among the delegation would be Yagyu Shiro himself. Stories about the Yagyu shogun were legendary- his skill in battle, his brilliant leadership, his utter ruthlessness. There was a family story that it had been Shiro who dealt the killing blow to Kaito's brother [and rival for the shogunate] Akio in battle, years ago. He was feared, reviled… and highly sought after. To be the wife or concubine of a man such as Yagyu Shiro would bring great prestige to whichever branch of the Hanzo clan was chosen for such an honor, no matter how unsavory the man himself might prove to be.

The second Misaki had heard this rumor, she had begun to feel the constant, fiery heartache again, the pain that had been her constant companion since she was nineteen years old.

She had been nineteen when her happiness was taken from her. For two years, she had been secretly meeting with Shiro, aided by her cousin Kasume, maidservant Keiko, and cousin-in-law Ume. Their romance had been a true meeting of hearts and souls and minds, though they had never once lain together. She had been ready to run away with Shiro, to leave her family behind and disappear into the wilds with him.

But it wasn't to be. Her cousin Akio had long suspected her of some mischief, and one night when she was nineteen, he got his proof. He had made up some story about being worried for her safety, and enlisted Kaito's help to find her. They had discovered Misaki in Shiro's embrace, and that had been that. Akio had dragged Misaki before the clan elders, and the entire romance had been revealed. Kaito hadn't wanted to denounce his young cousin, but Akio had left him with no choice. For Misaki's disobedience and consorting with the enemy, and for Kasume's willful aid in her "treachery", the girls had each received a brutal punishment of one hundred lashes each. Kaito had managed to arrange one final meeting between the young lovers- just enough time to make their goodbyes, and to exchange vials of blood so they would each always carry the essence of the other with them, wherever life took them. Even now, eighteen years later, Misaki still wore that precious talisman around her neck, hidden beneath her robes.

Within weeks, Misaki had received the news from a crowing Akio that Shiro had married. He had laughed at her, called her a worthless Yagyu's foolish whore. Heartbroken, Misaki had lost herself in endless training with katana and the other tools of the ninja, and eventually taken on the duties of a miko. Long after Kasume and the other girls her age had married and had children, Misaki had remained unmarried, content to ignore and be ignored by most of her family. She had Kaito and Ume and their children; Kasume, her husband Kaede, and their children; Kaito and Kasume's brothers Takashi and Ryouichi; her maid Keiko, as much friend and family as servant; Akio's widow Michiko. She had convinced herself that she didn't need more.

Now, as she faced the prospect of losing Shiro all over again, Misaki realized how wrong she had been. She had lost her entire life. She was now 37, likely barren, and far too old to take to wife. Kaito would arrange a marriage between Shiro and one of Kaito's young nieces, and Misaki would remain in the shadows of the Shinto and feel her heart break all over again.

"Why do you hide, little kochou?"

Misaki froze, dreading that voice, the nickname he had given her so long ago. Swallowing hard and fighting for composure, she turned, steeling herself to meet his eyes.

On the one hand, he hadn't changed at all. His face was still unlined, and he looked as young and fit as ever. His mouth was still curled in the sardonic smirk she knew so well, one eyebrow cocked in amusement. Yet his beautiful blue eyes gave the lie to the myth of agelessness. The Shiro she had known had never been so guarded, so distant. Even if she saw traces of the boy she had loved, he had grown into a very different man.

"Shiro," she managed to say, pleased that her voice was mostly steady. "It has been a long time. Welcome back to Kyoto."

For a moment, they didn't say anything, merely staring at each other. Misaki barely hid a flinch as her heart beat painfully in her chest; she wasn't sure she could endure this meeting.

"You know Kaito wishes to cement this treaty with marriage," Shiro said suddenly.

He had always been blunt. Always, he had cut through the meaningless pleasantries, to sooner make his point. Perhaps he hadn't changed so very much, after all. But did he have to come to this particular point so quickly? Had he sought her out merely to rub it in her face that he was beyond her reach? She had heard the stories, but never until now had she believed that her Shiro could be so cruel. Misaki felt her heart sinking into her stomach. Had a decision been made already? So soon? Who would it be then, which cousin would she now hate and be envious of?

"He said as much, yes," she replied carefully, praying she didn't look as devastated as she felt. "I… I didn't hear about your wife's death for many years. I'm sorry."  
>Shiro paused and frowned, whatever he had meant to say knocked out of his head. "You… You weren't told?" he asked, incredulous. "For how long?"<br>"Long years," she said, her gaze drifting away. "Grandmother didn't want me thinking… well. Anything, really. I wasn't told until after she'd died," she admitted.

She saw his eyes blaze with anger, nearly felt how hard he was clenching his jaw to keep from losing his temper. With a supreme effort of will, he calmed down enough to speak.

"She died only five years after we married," he said. "In all that time, I haven't taken another wife."  
>"That must have been hard, raising your sons on your own," she mused quietly, unable to look at him now. "You must be eager to take another wife."<br>"Yes," he nodded. "But this time it will be on my own terms. I'll not be denied a second time."

Misaki froze, slowly looking up at Shiro, hardly daring to believe what he was saying. But when she looked at him, she found nothing to make her believe that she had misunderstood him. Could he possibly be saying…?

"You hold the peace treaty in your hands, Misaki," Shiro said seriously. "You are the only woman, Hanzo or otherwise, that I would consider taking to wife. Kaito approves of the match, but he made it clear that the decision lies with you."  
>"But… I… Shiro, I'm old," Misaki blurted out. "It's doubtful I could give you children, and I'm not as beautiful as I once was-"<br>"You're still beautiful to me," he interrupted her, laying a finger on her lips before cupping her face in his hands. "I've waited eighteen years for you, Misaki. Marry me. Don't we deserve that, after all this time?"

For eighteen years, Shiro had carried the memory of Misaki's smile. Upon seeing it again, he decided he hadn't done the memory justice at all; his mind had betrayed him most profoundly. His memory was a horrible, pale facsimile to the real thing. How fortunate that he had the rest of his life to set about correcting his faulty memory.


	2. La Coeur De Leon

**Author's Note**: I have a bit of a fascination with Richard the Lionheart. Blame it on too many times watching Disney's _Robin Hood_ and reading _Ivanhoe_ one too many times. I was idly wiki'ing the god-king a couple of nights ago, and I found a page that suggested that Richard had fathered an illegitimate son, Philip de Cognac. My brain took that idea and ran with it, and this is what I came up with. As for why it's so melancholy… I have no answer. I didn't know I was in the mood to write angst until I was halfway through with it.

I did quite a bit of research before I started writing this one-shot. I knew I wasn't going to be completely historically accurate, but I at least wanted to make a conscious choice to break with historical record. For example, the dates of Richard's birth, coronation, and departure for the Crusades are all accurate, as are details such as his barring women [and Jews] from his coronation [though I'm pretty sure he didn't do it for the reason I state].

For those who don't know, Margot is pronounced "MAR-go". It's a French diminutive form of Margaret. According to my research, Richard the Lionheart spoke no English. Shocking, right? He's one of the most famous English kings in history, but he didn't speak English. He actually spoke French [a couple of dialects of French, actually]. Blame that on his mother. I've named his paramour Margaret, but that's the English form of the name. So I let him give her the French nickname.

**Images**: Remove all spaces.

The picture of Richard the Lionheart that inspired me to write this chapter: http:/ fc 09. deviantart. net/ fs 20/ i/ 2007/ 305/ 0/ e/ Richard_ The_ Lionheart_ by_ Mark Satchwill. Jpg

Lady Margaret of Poitiers [the actress is Rosamund Pike]: http:/ www. blogcdn. com/ www. aisledash. com/ media/ 2008/ 06/ 79695903_ 10. jpg

My inspiration for Margaret's ring [imagine a gold band and ruby instead of bronze and blue]: http:/ www. ancientspiral. com/ artefact/ biglap. JPG

**The Soul Family**: Or, who's who from the last chapter. While not everyone from the last chapter appears this time around, at least you'll start to see some of the repeating characters.

Margaret de Poitiers = Misaki  
>Richard the Lionheart = Shiro<br>Philip de Cognac = Noboru  
>Eleanor of Aquitaine = Kasume<p>

**Disclaimer, or The Literary License Clause**: As in the last chapter, quite a lot of my research is coming from that most dubious [and useful for purloining online references] source known as wikipedia. While I did try to ground my story in historical fact, I've changed several key details, which are detailed below.

While the Plantagenets [aka the royal family of England] did control the region of Poitou and did maintain a castle in Poitiers, I couldn't get my sources to agree on whether Richard had a favorite castle, and if he did, which one. I chose Poitiers because it was the home of one of my historical heroines, Diane de Poitiers [the mistress of Henry II of France].

While wikipedia did have an article stating that Richard might have fathered an illegitimate child [this is corroborated by, like, one historian], there are really no other sources mentioning Richard ever having a mistress [and royal mistresses were kind of well-documented, because they generally got titles, castles, money, or other compensation for their services]. Now, Richard did eventually marry Berengaria of Navarre, but they didn't have any children together [plenty of historians corroborate this]. However, where there is an illegitimate child, there is a mother, so that's the literary loophole I'm using to let this one-shot exist.

Finally, I'm committing a big sin of geography, history, and very likely logic. Eleanor was actually imprisoned in various castles in England from 1173 until Richard took the throne in 1189. I placed her in Aquitaine mostly because… well… she's Eleanor of Aquitaine, not Eleanor of England. I don't know what her actual accommodations in captivity were, but given that she was a queen twice over and held an insane amount of noble titles [and given that she's bloody Eleanor of Aquitaine], I decided that her captivity would include a fully-equipped royal court. Probably historically inaccurate, but… hello again, literary license, how lovely to see you!

* * *

><p>Poitiers, France. June, 1190.<p>

The ducal castle in Poitiers, the capital city of the Poitou region of France, was in an uproar.

Granted, the castle known as _ma petit belle_ had been a hub of activity for over ten years. The stately chateau had for the past fifteen years been the favorite residence of the Duke of Aquitaine, his private retreat from his royal duties and the center of his administration. For the past two years, ever since His Grace the Duke had announced his intention to go on Crusade, the castle had become the center of operations to equip and fund the expedition to Jerusalem.

However, the castle's normally bustling energy had become outright frenetic since April, when His Grace suddenly bumped up his plans of departure. Instead of waiting until next spring for his troops to complete their training, the Duke had announced that he wished to leave as soon as possible. And Lord forbid anyone ever tell a Plantagenet no…

The ducal chamber was a wreck, half-packed and half in disarray. Trunks lay flung open, contents hastily thrown inside. The massive desk was piled high with maps, charts, correspondences, quills with broken nibs and blobs of dried red wax. Tapestries had been pulled off the wall in preparation for being packed in mothballs. Fully half the furniture, accoutrements, and possessions had already been moved out of the chamber, either given away as gifts or tucked away in storage. If the environment was any indication, the duke was in high dudgeons.

The duke should have been as active as his palace was. He should have been down among his knights and retainers, overseeing the progress in their training. He should have been choosing a seneschal to oversee this beloved castle in his absence, sending letters to his mother so she could step into his feudal duties for him. At the very least, he could have been overseeing the servants packing his possessions.

But His Grace the Duke of Aquitaine, also known as King Richard I of England, wasn't doing any of this. Instead, the beautiful June dawn found His Grace on the window seat dressed only in his hose and a knee-length red tunic, staring bleakly out the wavy, sand-pitted glass that overlooked his lands. Considering the fact that the king was a grown man of 33 and a soldier famous for his bravery- this was, after all, the man the world would come to know as the Lionheart- he looked astonishingly like a desolate youth as he looked over his holdings, his forearms resting on his bent knees as he tilted his head back to rest against the stone wall. A knight of Richard's skill should have been beside himself with anticipation for leaving on Crusade, but this man looked as though he were riding off to meet his own death.

Possibly, the Lionheart's desolation was due to the ring he held in his hand, twisting it about his long, slender fingers and idly watching the way it shone in the light. The thick band was made of gold, inscribed with fanciful whirls and dots. The ring bore only one stone- a ruby, dark as blood. _My heart's blood_, he had told her when he slipped it on her finger. _To remind you that my heart is in your keeping_. A masculine ring originally, it had found its true purpose when it sat on a lady's finger. His lady. His countess, his duchess, his princess, his queen. His Margot.

For as long as he'd known her, the lady who had eventually come to be known as Margaret de Poitiers had been a delicate thing. Hers had been a pale and fragile beauty, soft and pastel, hiding an inner strength as formidable as steel. Long, fine pale gold hair, falling down in a waterfall to her hips. Wide, dark grey eyes that, while watchful, had always been serene. A coral mouth, slightly too wide to be called fashionably beautiful. Nearly translucent skin, as smooth and pale as porcelain, with delicate pink roses in her cheeks. She'd had the face of a Madonna, his Margot, and a soul as beautiful as her face.

Her purity and religious devotion had been surprising, given that she had been a member of the rowdy, lusty royal court of Aquitaine. She, like so many other young girls in the region, had been sent to attend upon his mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Queen of England. She was to be trained as a lady and with any luck would catch herself a husband. Margaret's father had been petty nobility, too low to tempt a count or a duke to take Margaret to wife. But she could have gotten herself an aging knight or a second son who didn't stand to inherit.

Rather ironic, that. Not noble enough to marry a duke or a count, and so her consolation prize had been a prince.

Richard could still recall the exact moment he'd first laid eyes upon Margaret, as if it were mere moments ago. The year had been 1176. He had been 19 years old, brash and arrogant and full of his own self-importance as prince and favorite of his powerful mother. He had returned to the Aquitaine region after an unsuccessful revolt against his father, King Henry II of England, in order to tame and control his rebellious French barons. He had gone to his mother's current place of captivity, in Bordeaux, as it had been three years since he had seen her last.

He'd seen his mother, all right, but he had also seen _her._ She had been 17 years old, beautiful but very quiet. She had been seated on Eleanor's dais, dressed in a demure gown of sky blue edged in silver, her long blonde braid covered with a sheer veil of white silk, pearls strung across her forehead and around her neck. She had been surrounded by three young courtiers, all of whom were plying her with the language of courtly love so beloved of Eleanor. She had laughed softly, blushing prettily. She hadn't been skilled at the game of flirting, not then. She was still fresh from the convent then, and unused to young men.

To say that he'd been instantly smitten with her wasn't entirely accurate. He'd been intrigued, yes, but only as long as it took to learn that she was of petty nobility, only at the court to learn the mannerisms of a lady and to find a husband. He had put her from his mind after that, turning instead to the louder, brasher, more flirtatious girls in his mother's retinue. The easier girls, the ones who only held his attention for as long as it took to conquer them.

The more he saw of Margaret, however, the more fascinated he had become. She was different than the Provencal girls he'd known all his life; different from every girl he'd ever known. There was a quiet strength to her, an utter self-control and self-possession that he'd never seen in one so young. She may have been the daughter of a penniless noble, but she had the bearing of a queen. As the days passed and they had occasions to speak, he learned that she was exceptionally intelligent, shrewdly observant, and utterly incorruptible. A perfect lady, and clearly a favorite of his mother's.

They had eventually become lovers, on a warm spring night after a raucous May Day celebration. He had won the day's joust; she had been crowned Queen of the May. They had led the dancing together, he wearing a ducal coronet, she garlanded in a wreath of fragrant flowers. They had presided over the May Dance together, seated on raised thrones, he holding her hand as their roles demanded. He had been entranced by her all evening; captivated by her wide smiles and her delighted laughter, which until that night he had never heard so freely. After long hours of revelry [and several goblets of potent wine], they had raced out into the courtyard, intent upon finding fairies. Somewhere between the fountains and the rose garden, he'd discovered how soft her lips were, and all thoughts of fairies had been chased out of his head.

It could have remained a simple affair. Such things were commonly done. Even if Margaret wasn't noble enough to wed, she was still nobility, and a fitting bedroom companion. His mother was notoriously nonchalant about that sort of thing; as long as both parties were discreet, they could carry on their affair as long as they wished. He could have kept her as mistress with very little fuss or trouble, then seen her conveniently married off when he tired of her. But he'd gone and complicated things for himself by falling completely and utterly in love with his paramour. She fascinated and delighted him in every single, minute detail; he never wanted to let her leave his side.

And therein lay the problem. She may have been his soulmate, but in the eyes of England and France she was still too lowborn to marry a prince. It was Richard's lot in life to marry in order to cement alliances and build his father's empire; love had nothing to do with it. Margot could bring nothing to a marriage, and so she could not be considered as a bride.

He had stewed over this problem for weeks, storming about the castle in a foul mood as he fought against the realities of his position. Finally, after a long night spent watching Margaret as she slept in his arms, he'd made his decision. Hang the rules and hang his father; he would make her his anyways.

They had married in secret on a dark autumn's night in 1179. There had been no witnesses save the monk who wed them, and they gave no clue to the court about their union. They carried on as they had always done; courteously impersonal in public, wildly passionate in private. He had given Margot the ducal ring of Aquitaine as a wedding band. The one who held it, held Aquitaine, and Richard _was_ Aquitaine. His land, his blood, his very soul lay in Margot's hands, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

They couldn't acknowledge their union publicly, but they had been wildly, deliriously, unbelievably happy. Under the auspices of a hunting trip to Anjou, Richard had taken his young bride on a honeymoon trip. They had spent the day riding their horses through the woods; he had taught her the art of falconry. Then at night… ah, the nights had been utter perfection, retiring from their party early and spending very little of the dark hours in sleep.

Margaret had fairly glowed with the force of her happiness; even the pettiness of the other court ladies couldn't affect her. Then Richard had discovered that it wasn't just marriage that had his Margot shining; it was the child that grew within her. The moment he learned about the pregnancy, he had moved Margot into his favorite castle, in Poitiers. She could be away from prying eyes there, safe from court intrigues, safe to shelter and nurture the child in her womb. Their son was born on a stormy March night in 1180. Philip hadn't been carried full-term, but he fought to remain on the Earth. He had been tiny and delicate, and utterly, utterly perfect.

They had created their own little kingdom within the castle walls. Within the keep, he wasn't a Plantagenet prince or a Norman duke; she carried no stigma of whore. They were man and wife, a family. And while Margot would claim that to be queen of his heart was quite enough of a kingdom for her, Richard began to plan for the day when he wore the crown of England. On that day, surely he could claim whatever bride he wished, and he could have his wife and child beside him in their proper places. He would make his Margot a queen, and she would be the most glorious queen since… well, since his mother.

As it turned out, it wasn't to be. Richard's councilors had abjectly refused to accept the idea of a low-born noble ruling beside him as Queen of England; especially not his leman. England had already suffered enough under the caprices of King Henry's paramours, and the councilors would not hear of Richard carrying on the tradition. In the end, Richard was crowned alone. In a fit of pique, he barred admittance to all women; if his Margot couldn't be there, then no other woman bloody well would be, either.

From the moment he'd been crowned, he had begun the preparations to leave for the Holy Land. Able and intelligent ruler Richard might have been, but at heart he was a soldier. He had spent all his life itching for a fight, and there was no greater war than the Crusades. He had intended to leave Margot behind, to work with Eleanor as Regents of his empire. Eventually, if he was in the Holy Land long enough, he would send for Margaret and Philip to join him. He would enjoy that; teaching his nine-year-old son to wield a sword, sharing with Margaret the wonders of the heart of Christendom. Perhaps the Lord would finally bless them with another child, to thank Richard for fighting on His behalf… Margot, bowing to the inevitable, had begun the preparations, telling him he should be able to set sail within the year.

Richard clenched his jaw as his fingers tightened around Margot's ring. He hadn't intended to leave like this. Never like this.

He hadn't noticed at first, when Margot became ill. He had attributed it to a wet, cold spring and an old castle; nothing to worry about. How stupid of him; how utterly and completely foolish. He blamed himself for not noticing, for not forcing her to rest. He had let her run ragged, and taken himself to his holdings in Normandy for a hunting trip.

And God had punished him for it. The chill had turned into ague, and three days later, Margot was dead.

Margot, his Margot, had died. And he hadn't been there to fight for her life. He had let her slip through his fingers without a single thought. He had left her, and God had stolen her away, leaving him and his young son behind.

He had ridden through the gates of the castle four days ago, as flushed and excited as a boy, eager to show Margot the massive stag he had slain. He hadn't registered the forlorn faces of his vassals as he strode through the castle, calling for Margot and Philip; he had noticed nothing until his seneschal stopped him and gave him the news.

_My lord, I regret to tell you that the Lady Margaret has died…_

He hadn't been able to understand what the man was trying to tell him. Dead? How could Margot possibly be dead? He had left Poitiers five days ago, what could she have died of? She had been perfectly healthy when he left! His retainer had tried to explain, but Richard had simply pushed past him, praying that the seneschal had simply lost his wits, that Margot was only resting.

But when he walked into the ducal chamber they had shared for so many years, he found her laid out in state, her hands neatly folded over her breast, her beautiful face still and cold.

He had taken one look at her, and his entire world had shattered.

For 14 years, Margot had been the center and entirety of his universe. She had been his confidante, his anchor, his best friend, his lover. She had been the one to soothe his raging temper, to check his arrogance and to steady his impulsiveness. When he worked too hard, she would either order him a tray of food or persuade him to put his papers away for a few hours. Though she couldn't sit beside him during grievance audiences, it was her advice he sought first; her balanced opinions and thoughtful answers, combined with her gentle sense of humor. Whenever he experienced a triumph or a tragedy, Margot was the first to be told. She was his wife and his muse, his queen and his greatest treasure. It had been she who gave him his distinctive nickname, she who had first called him _ma tres-chere Coeur de Leon_.

And now she was gone. She had been his heart, and now his heartbeat had stilled.

It had been two months since Margaret's death. For the first week, Richard hadn't said a single word. He had refused to see anyone, or do anything after he'd seen to Margaret's funeral. He had shut himself in his room with his son, and there he had remained. Food and drink were brought up, clothing was left for them both, but apart from young Philip, no one had seen or heard from the grieving king. When he finally did emerge, he was stone-faced and cold, and said nothing other than to order his seneschal to begin preparations for Richard's immediate departure to the Holy Land. He was going on Crusade, and he was going _now_.

The day had finally come for his departure. And in many ways, Richard knew this was goodbye. Even when he returned from the Crusades, he knew he would never come back to Poitiers. He couldn't bear the thought of returning to this castle, this little kingdom where Margot had ruled as queen. How could he return to their fantasy land, when he knew that Margot wouldn't be there to welcome him home? Margot was gone, and he was never going to see her again.

Richard closed his eyes, his head falling forward until his forehead gently hit the cool windowpane. His fist closed around Margaret's ring as his throat choked with tears. Her ring was the only possession of hers that he was bringing with him. He would wear it on a chain around his neck, his personal talisman against evil. He would never speak of her again, never let on how his heart bled for her, but he would carry her always by his heart. He would carry on as the warrior king of England, he would likely have to marry again to secure his holdings, but she would always be his soulmate, the queen of his heart.


	3. Empty

**Author's Note**: You know what's difficult? When you get a brilliant idea for a chapter… but know almost nothing about the subject matter. See, I'm a passing fan of _Les Miserables_ [mostly because I work in theatre and it's kind of a professional obligation to sell your soul to Broadway]; I know some of the songs, love some of the casts, but have never seen the musical all the way through, nor have I read the book. Most of my knowledge of both the play and the book come from a dear friend of mine who is utterly obsessed. Seriously, she loves Les Mis like I love Green Day's _American Idiot_. So I'm going to ask you to be forgiving as you read this, because I'm sure it's going to be very wrong on many levels. When I sat down to write this chapter, I went straight to google and wikipedia and started looking up everything I could find about the 1832 Revolution, the musical and book, and everything else that might help me keep this chapter true to Les Mis and the time period [down to details like making sure both absinthe and the waltz were known to France in the 1830s].

Incidentally, I did write this chapter to kind of mirror the last one. You know how much I love to make my characters grieve. It seemed only fair that after the gut-wrenching grief of Richard the Lionheart in the last chapter, I reincarnate my soulmates into another difficult time period and reverse the roles.

**Character Play-Bys**: Because y'all know me, this is my favorite part of writing a chapter. And I realize that a lot of these characters only get passing mentions, but I'm giving them faces anyways because… because I want to. Yep.

Seraphine: Jane Levy  
>Etienne: Kellan Lutz [when he's being softer and not in your face sexy]<br>Enjolras: David Thaxton  
>Combeferre: Jon Robyns [yes, I realize he did Enjolras and Marius… my chapter, my rules]<br>Grantaire: Hadley Fraser  
>Courfeyrac: Heath Ledger [a la <em>10 Things I Hate About You<em>]  
>Joly: Jesse Eisenberg<br>Prouvaire: James McAvoy

**The Soul Family**: A lot of the characters in this chapter, especially among the students, belong to the soul family. They simply didn't show up in the previous two chapters, and I'm not entirely certain when they'll show up again. But Jeanette, Prouvaire, Courfeyrac, and Grentaire all belong to the soul family.

Seraphine: Margaret, Misaki  
>Etienne: Richard, Shiro<br>Enjolras: Kaede  
>Combeferre: Kaito<p>

**Disclaimer**: First the obvious one… I don't own Les Mis. History owns the students' revolution, Victor Hugo owns the novel, and the musical belongs to Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil. I only own Seraphine, Jeanette, and my take on Lesgles.

For the Les Mis lovers… yes, I have basically taken the character of Lesgles and twisted him to suit my own purposes. The reason I did it? I didn't want to go the route of Enjolras/OC. I prefer to leave Enjolras untouched, thank you.

Additionally, there are a few places where I stole snatches of lyrics. Cookies to whoever finds them all.

This entire chapter is inspired by Marius' lament, _Empty Chairs at Empty Tables_. Now, I hate, loathe and despise the character of Marius; I think he's the most pompous, self-satisfied, and insufferable character in any musical I've ever seen. Even when Jon Robyns sang Marius, that wasn't enough to make me like the character. But I adore this song; I think it's a beautiful expression of PTSD and survivor's guilt. So I stole the song from Marius, wrestled it into prose form, and gave it to a character who I don't utterly despise. For those of you know who Les Mis, you can guess the tenor of the scene you're about to read.

* * *

><p>Paris, France. 06 June, 1832.<p>

The streets of Paris were still humming with the news, still electrified from the sounds of gunshots, which had only recently ceased. Men and women idled in the streets, discussing what had happened; others were pushed out of the way by exhausted and irritated national guard soldiers, who tramped through the cobblestone streets on their way to the numerous pubs and taverns in the area.

Monsieur Thénardier, ever conscious of an opportunity to make some money, had thrown open the door of his inn to the soldiers. When they began to pour through the door, Thénardier grabbed the arm of his sixteen-year-old niece, Seraphine, and dragged her from the kitchen where she had been helping Jeanette the cook prepare the evening meal.

"You straighten out the back room," he barked, shoving open the thick wooden door that led to the private room. "Hasn't been touched since the last time those students were in, you lazy slut. Told ya to clean it two days ago."

He stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. As usual, he had taken no real notice of his niece, otherwise he would have seen how pale and unresponsive to his bile she was. She barely even seemed aware that she stood in the back room; her grey eyes were vacant, and horribly bleak.

The slamming of the door seemed to rouse Seraphine from her stupor, just enough for her uncle's order to resonate through her sleep-deprived mind. Swallowing hard, she slowly staggered forwards, walking towards the broom in the back corner as if someone else were controlling her body. As she forced her tired body to settle into the rhythm of sweeping the floor, she began humming under her breath, almost unconsciously. It wasn't until she realized that she was singing one of Courfeyrac's drinking songs that she fell silent, wincing.

As she ceased her humming, she also slowly stopped sweeping. Instead, she merely stood in the center of the room, looking around as if this were the first time she had ever seen this room. And yet, the room was as familiar to her as anything else in the tavern she had called home all her life. It was a fairly spacious room, made more intimate by the clustering of tables and chairs. The wall opposite the door was dominated by a large fireplace, wonderfully warm in the winter. As she looked around, Seraphine sighed. Empty chairs… empty tables… With an effort, she held back a whimper. Where were the beautiful souls who had once filled those chairs and loitered around those tables? Would she ever see them again?

The broom clattered to the ground as Seraphine quit even pretending to clean what only days ago had been the headquarters of a secret society. They had been students at the nearby Paris University; students of philosophy, medicine, rhetoric, literature. Learned young men, who had come to hate the repressive government and its strangulation of the lower classes. For these young men, the revolutionary cry of _liberté, égalité, fraternatié_ was still a call to action, still a sacred responsibility. In the evenings, they would come to this inn on the pretense that it was a quiet, convenient place to study their books, and they would speak of revolution and reform. She had loved them all, every last one of them. Naïve dreamers, the lot of them, but it had been such a beautiful dream.

Seraphine walked before the dead fireplace, reaching up and resting a hand against the wooden mantle. Enjolras had stood just so, when he first proposed his radical idea. A tremulous, pain-filled smile lingered on her face as thought of the angelic, charismatic and utterly incorruptible Enjolras filled her mind.

Heaven help her, she had loved him. Not, as her aunt and uncle had sneeringly suggested, in the way a whore loved her best-paying client. No, she had loved him as a brother, a protector, a hero. He had saved her, the night they met. He had come to the tavern for the first time- to scope it out as a potential meeting place, she later found out. He had interrupted her uncle as he took his belt to her- not at all an unusual occurrence in her life. But this time, Enjolras had stopped it, and after that she had been utterly devoted to him. He had always treated her with perfect courtesy, as if she were a lady of his station and not a guttersnipe niece of a lying, cheating tavern owner. And she had been fascinated by him, this wealthy, educated man who could have had such an easy life, were it not for his fervent belief in democracy and equality. She had never believed she would live in the world he envisioned, but she had wished with all her heart that he would make that world come to pass, simply because his was too beautiful a soul to reside in the world that presently existed.

Sighing, Seraphine turned to face the rest of the room, this place where Enjolras' passionate words had inspired his fellows to revolution. It had always been Enjolras' dream, really. He had been the only one who really and truly wholeheartedly believed that their revolution would succeed, that they would create a new world. The other students had come to believe, in their own ways, but perhaps Grantaire had said it best when he said that Enjolras followed the flame of revolution, and they followed Enjolras. He had been that type of person; so pure, so earnest, so fervent, that he couldn't possibly be wrong. He had been like an avenging angel, and even if the others didn't believe his cause could succeed, they did believe in him.

She bit her lip, blinking back the tears. Oh God, it hurt; it ripped her heart in two to think of Enjolras, of all the boys, in the past tense.

And yet, how could she do differently? She had heard the gunfire as well as everyone else in the surrounding blocks; she had known full well what _Les Amies de l'ABC_, as they had called themselves, had gone to do. It had been three days since she had slept, and she doubted she would ever be able to sleep again. Not when the memories of the glow of fires was still fresh in her mind. Not when the sounds of the gunfire slowly dying out still reverberated in her skull. She had known what the increasing quiet meant. The Dreamers had been sent to an eternal sleep. She only wondered if any of them were still awake, if any had escaped.

It hadn't been all fervent speeches and plans for the future, she thought as she drifted to the first table to the left. This table had always been piled high with books and littered with broken quills, she remembered fondly as her fingers dragged across the smooth, worn wood of the tabletop. Joly had preferred to sit here, where the fire would give him enough light to read his medical books. Combeferre would sit opposite him; sometimes reading one book or another, other times making keen observations of the others, or marshalling Enjolras when he became particularly fervent and unrealistic. And by Joly… Seraphine choked, two tears spilling from her eyes. No, not yet; she could not bear the thought of him yet.

_Oh God, bring him home_, she implored a deity she wasn't sure she believed in. _Not him. Please, not him… bring him home…_

She spun around, away from the phantom faces, but the sight of the table in the corner only caused more tears to fall. It was the most shadowy corner in the room, and the table had been purposefully pushed back as far away from the light as possible. Here Grantaire had sat, tipping his chair back against the wall as his left hand wrapped around a bottle of absinthe. His drinking had always been a point of contention between himself and Enjolras; Enjolras, with his high ideals, had always found Grantaire's habitual drunkenness to be shameful, and Grantaire himself something of a buffoon.

He had been a difficult man, had Grantaire; many found his constant drinking and especially his cynicism to be trying. But she had always had a soft spot for the lonely, lost Grantaire. She couldn't even explain why, really. It wasn't as if he had been any less surly with her than with anyone else; at times he had been more so. There had been times when his tongue had become so uncivilized that Enjolras had rebuked him and sent him staggering home. But she had never minded. She had seen him in his soft moments, the few times he showed what a good man he could have been, and so she refused to believe that Grantaire was irredeemable.

The students had taught her to read during the long, dark winter, despite her protestations that she had no use for the skill. But it had been Grantaire who had written her one and only book- a French translation of the Greek myths he so loved. He had enchanted her with his stories of heroes, lovers and gods, and so when Enjolras, Joly and Combeferre had taken it into their heads to teach her to read, Grantaire had made her a book of fairy tales. He wouldn't tell her any new stories after he finished that book; if she wanted to know them, she had to read them for herself. When she had finished with the first volume, he made her another. It had also been Grantaire who had bestowed her nickname- _petaloúda_, the Greek word for butterfly. She had loved him for his well-hidden soft heart, but also for his weaknesses, his temper, his times of darkness. Perhaps she had loved him for his humanity, as she had loved Enjolras for his divinity.

Her battle to contain her tears became more difficult as she looked over the room again. They had all been here, only days ago. She had given them the news of General Lamarque's death, and watched in growing apprehension as the fervor took them all farther and farther away from her, drawing them towards revolution. They had laughed and planned and sung songs of victory, and she had begun to fear that she would never see them again. She had feared that their dreams would remain unfulfilled, feared that the Parisians would not rise up to rally around the fallen Lamarque, as Enjolras believed they would. If the Parisians didn't rise to help, the revolution was doomed. But Enjolras had been so sure…

And now? Where were their dreams now, where were their songs and their flame and the passionate conviction that they could lead Paris into a new dawn?

They had left the tavern late that night, still drunk on the promise of victory in the morning. Enjolras had looked over his shoulder as he walked out the door, and he had smiled at her.

"Smile, _petaloúda_," he had told her. "I'll bring you a new world with the dawn."

She gripped the edge of the table as a sob wracked through her entire body. Two dawns had come and gone, but Enjolras' promised world would never come. He would never come.

She jumped, gasping as a pounding on the door ripped her from her thoughts.

"Are you done in there yet?" her uncle's voice demanded. "We've got thirsty customers!"  
>"Nearly," she said shakily, rushing for her broom again. "I need a rag to wipe off the tables."<p>

She sighed in relief as she heard her uncle grumbling, and his stomping footsteps leading away from the door to her sanctum. Thank God; she hadn't the energy to endure her uncle right now.

A sheaf of papers beneath Joly's table caught Seraphine's attention. Her heart gave a painful lurch; were these discarded scraps of what were likely Joly's meticulous medical notes the only reminder she was to have of her friends? Licking her lips, she bent down to retrieve the papers…

But when she registered what they were, her very breath stilled in her throat, and the pain she had felt at the thought of Enjolras and Grantaire intensified into a flame that threatened to utterly destroy her.

They were rough sketches, done in charcoal. Most were figure studies; an attempt to catch the graceful lift of a hand, the tilt of a head or the way firelight played over a face. She recognized all of the students in the sketches, and this was precious enough to her. But there was one more- a carefully drawn, highly detailed portrait. A young girl, her head gracefully tilted to the side, eyes soft and focused on something off to the side. A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth, and her hair fell softly about her face and shoulders.

Dear God, he had made her as beautiful as an angel.

The papers trembled in her grasp, threatening to fall through her suddenly nerveless fingers. Her eyes filled with tears, and there was no longer any hope of keeping them from falling. With shaking fingers she rolled the papers up and gently put them in her apron pocket, before sinking into Combeferre's empty chair. She buried her face in her hands as her shoulders shook with forceful sobs.

_Etienne… oh dear God, Etienne…_

He had never wanted to be a physician. Etienne Lesgles had had the heart, mind and soul of an artist. It had been his dream to paint with oils, to sketch in charcoal or ink. But his father had refused to pay for his education at university unless Etienne chose a "respectable" profession, and so at the urging of his childhood friend Joly, he had taken up the study of medicine. Art became his secret passion, a way to escape the pressures he felt.

Seraphine had always thought it sad. Etienne said he had no desire to be a physician, but he was wonderful at it. Unlike most artists, he had the logical, rational mind of a scientist, but more importantly he had possessed the compassionate heart and empathy required of a truly great physician. It had been Etienne who first noticed how strenuous labor affected her, he who had realized she was never warm enough. Etienne had brought her a beautiful, thick wool shawl, dyed the most brilliant shade of scarlet she had ever seen. She had worn it day and night through the winter, both for its warmth and for its beauty; it had become one of her prized possessions.

He had been the first to realize how sick she was. Perhaps that was only natural; he was one of the medical students, after all. And more importantly, he had always paid attention to her. And so he was the first to put the clues together- the habitual weariness, never being quite strong, the cough that never seemed to go away now matter how fine the weather. All the boys had noticed at one point or another, but Etienne was the first to realize what it meant- that Seraphine, like her mother before her, was falling prey to consumption. She was only sixteen years old, but without immediate and extensive medical attention, she was unlikely to live to see her next birthday.

When had Etienne eclipsed Enjolras and Grantaire in importance in her estimation? She had no idea. She couldn't even determine when she had come to regard him so. He hadn't been the most forward of the students; not as inspiring as Enjolras, nor as outgoing as Courfeyrac or as intellectual as Combeferre. He had been Enjolras' second in command, but for a long time Seraphine just hadn't paid him any special attention. He had been merely another in the group, another friend to laugh and joke with and serve a mug of ale.

But somehow, at some point, he had ceased to be another face in the crowd. He had become Etienne, the friend who always had a quiet smile for her, the hand always ready to steady her when she wobbled under a heavy tray. He had been the watchful eyes that wouldn't let her hide from the truth of her condition, the quiet strength she had somehow come to depend upon to sustain her through long hours of working. Somehow, while the rest of the students had remained dear friends, and some had become the brothers of her heart, he had become the one who held her heart in his gentle hands.

She had never quite let herself believe that there would ever be a future for them. It wasn't so much the seven-year gap in their ages, or even the fact of her sickness. Indeed, Etienne had staunchly insisted that after this revolution was over, he would take her away. They would leave Paris, travel south to Provence. He had been so sure that he could cure her… No, it had been the simple fact of their classes. No matter what dreams Enjolras and Etienne had shared of a free and equal society, Seraphine had always known that she was of the scum of Paris, while Etienne came from money. His parents would never accept her, and she wouldn't allow him to break with his family for her sake. But Etienne had been so stubborn, so determined. He wasn't going to allow anything to stand in their way; he was going to take her to wife, and make her well. He had sworn they would share their lives together.

He had told her all of this, only two nights ago. Enjolras had convinced the rest of the students that the time for their revolution was now, at the time of Lamarque's death. He had sent them out on their missions- to fetch guns and ammunition, food rations, to secure the barricades. They would convene in the morning and begin their Great Work. Etienne had lingered behind as Seraphine cleaned up after them. At her insistence, he had slipped out before her uncle found them together, and they had reconvened on the roof of the building an hour later, when Seraphine was done for the night. They had wasted none of their last night. He had held her in his arms all night, kissed her, promised her that when he returned from the battle he would marry her and take her away. They had watched the stars dance across the skies as they exchanged their I love you's. And at dawn, he had left her, with a final kiss and a whispered, "I promise."

He had slipped away to join his brothers at the barricades. She had gone downstairs, to begin the day's work for the tavern. Shortly after sunrise, the gunshots had begun. She had weeded the vegetable garden, swept the tavern floors, gone to market, helped Jeanette with the meals, done laundry, served customers, all to the constant accompaniment of the guns. It had been impossible to block out the knowledge that her friends, her angels, her brothers, her soul's mate, were only a few streets away, exchanging desperate volleys with the national guard soldiers. All day, her mind was frantic with questions. Were they alright? Did they have enough bullets? Had any Parisians joined them? Was Grantaire raging drunk? Had Enjolras sent Prouvaire away, to survive and write about the rest? Had Joly been able to overcome his nerves? Were any of them wounded? Was Etienne tending to the wounded with Joly, or had he grabbed a musket to stand at Enjolras' side?

As soon as she'd finished rushing through her chores for the evening, Seraphine had raced up to the roof, training all of her attention on the glow of firelight a few blocks away. With nothing to distract her, she sent all of her thoughts and hopes and prayers to the barricades. Had anyone died? Been wounded? Were they sleeping, or sitting awake by the campfires? She spent the entire night on the roof, whispering her thoughts to them, sending them her love, praying for their safety.

The next morning, it had begun again. She should have been exhausted, being awake for 48 hours at this point, but fear and dread bolstered her and kept her moving. She couldn't think, couldn't even contemplate resting; not until she knew their fates. She went through another day of chores, pressing every patron of the tavern for news of the battle, trying to block out the knowledge that the gunfire was slowly dying down. She knew what that meant, but she denied it, praying that they had surrendered, that they were being taken to prison, not… not the alternative.

And now here she was, preparing her boys' sanctuary for the soldiers who had fought them, praying that the news wouldn't be as bad as she feared.

The coarse laughter and stomping of dusty boots broke through her reverie. Before she was ready to allow them entry into her boys' place, the soldiers came through the door, trampling their boots over her memories and taking chairs that didn't belong to them.

"Get us some ale, girl!" one of the soldiers ordered, propping his boots onto Grantaire's table. "We're tired and thirsty and in no mood to wait!"  
>"Of course, monsieur," Seraphine choked out, forcing herself to curtsey. "You were… at the barricades?"<br>"We were," said another soldier, usurping Joly's chair. "Pathetic sight, it was. Bodies everywhere. Just schoolboys."

She could feel the bile rising in her throat, but she forced it back down. She had to know, she couldn't bear not knowing the truth… She turned to one, who appeared to have some rank amongst the soldiers, trying not to snarl at him for standing in Enjolras' place by the mantle.

"The students… Did anyone survive?" she asked, her voice a mere tremor.  
>"None," he replied with relish. "Most of 'em died this morning. The ones who were still alive when we broke their defenses, we bayoneted. Their doctors, too. We got their ringleader last. Firing squad, him and his drunk lapdog."<p>

She couldn't hide her horror, couldn't contain the anguish. She turned on her heel and fled out of the room, away from the men who had murdered her boys. She ran through the kitchen, ignoring Jeanette's panicked questions, and burst into the kitchen gardens. Once outside, she fell to her knees, retching and sobbing, her fingers scrabbling in the dirt as she wept in anguish.

"Oh my friends, my friends," she moaned, curling into the fetal position as more sobs wracked her frame. "Forgive me… that I live, while you are gone… Oh God…"

She hadn't known until this moment, how hard she had been hoping that they would come home. She had thought that she was prepared for this probability. But it was one thing to consider an intellectual proposition, completely another to be faced with the emotional reality. She could say to herself that Etienne had been bayoneted, Enjolras and Grantaire executed… But to wrestle with what that _meant_ was beyond her strength. The abstract idea she could have conceivably attempted to understand. But when faced with the reality…

She would never again see Prouvaire leap from his table, excitedly waving his latest poem about. Never again would Courfeyrac tease Joly for his nervous disposition, never again would Courfeyrac leap up, whistling and catching her about the waist to waltz with her. Combeferre would never send her into stitches with his dry wit. Grantaire would never rock back in his chair and call for his _petaloúda_ to come flying to him. Enjolras' beautiful eyes would never again come alight with conviction, his voice never turn deep and rich and ringing with passion. Etienne's clever fingers would never capture another sketch; never again would his green eyes light upon her, or his guarded face relax into a secret smile meant just for her. The enormity of what she had lost was incalculable, impossible to understand. To have to spend the rest of her life without the boys who had become her family… It was more than she could possibly endure.

Her sobbing gave way to hacking, then to the gagging, the painful coughing, the metallic tang of warm blood. But this time, it wasn't a speck or two; this time, a stream of blood spurted from her mouth, staining the ground beneath her and robbing her of breath.

By the time Jeanette had run out into the gardens, frantic with worry, Seraphine was already on the edge of consciousness. No matter what Jeanette attempted to revive the girl, Seraphine drifted beyond her reach. In regards to what had caused her such grief, Seraphine had only one thing to say.

"Empty chairs at empty tables."

* * *

><p><strong>Final Thoughts<strong>: The hard thing about writing this chapter- apart from not knowing very much about Les Mis- was finding a stopping point. As you've probably figured out from the previous chapters, when I decide on a new time period for my soul family, I imagine their entire lives out. I did the same with Seraphine. I had a whole backstory for her- her mother died of consumption when she was a baby [a la Fantine, minus the prostitution], she was put in the care of her aunt and her husband [who I made the Thénardiers purely for recognizability], she spent her entire life working in the tavern and had no hope for the future until she met Enjolras and the students, she fell in love with Etienne, the boys died in the barricades, and Seraphine lost all will to live, basically withering away in bed and dying of consumption one month after the boys died. However, while I was writing I realized that most of Seraphine's backstory was irrelevant to what I was doing, so I didn't write any of it. Kind of a pity; had I written Seraphine's death I would've had Etienne waiting for her, and heaven would have been the little cottage in Provence they planned for. Ah well.

I very nearly added an additional character into this chapter. See, that friend of mine who's utterly Les Mis obsessed holds dear to her heart the idea that when Enjolras says that Patria is his mistress, Patria is a woman's name, not a romantization of France. She's drafted an entire story based on the idea that Patria is a woman. I really wanted to bring Patria in as a member of the soul family, but I just didn't have the room to include her. Better luck next time, I guess.


	4. Sounds and Silence

**Author's Note**: Wow. I can't believe it's been nearly a year since I updated this story. Well, it does say on my homepage that I'll only update this sporadically. I've actually tried to write about three other scenes for this… can you even call it a story? Anyways, yeah. I'm finally back.

I am completely and utterly obsessed with the mythology of the Trojan War. I've written out multiple versions of the interaction between Achilles and Penthesilea over the years, and I will probably continue writing versions of it until I can no longer write due to reasons of death. So, given how much I love this myth, it made perfect sense to me to use it as another chapter for this story. I like the idea that Achilles and Penthesilea were given other chances to be together, in other lifetimes.

**Disclaimers**: This one-shot is more or less compliant with a series I wrote called _Conquered_. There may be one or two very vague references to events of that story, but it's not necessary to be familiar with it to read this.

This is a really long disclaimer for a really small point. I mention in this one-shot that the Amazons aren't one-breasted, even though a main part of their mythological identity is that they cut or burn off a breast to be better archers. A friend and I were discussing this idea, and he made a fabulous point- why would a culture who idolized women and considered them the superior gender cut off a breast [which is after all a defining feminine feature], essentially making themselves more masculine? I love that argument, so I used it for this chapter.

**The Soul Family**:

Achilles: Etienne, Richard, Shiro  
>Penthesilea: Seraphine, Margot, Misaki<p>

* * *

><p>The thing that never failed to surprise him was how <em>loud<em> the battlefield was. The clang of metal weapons, the pounding of feet on the ground, the groans of injured and dying men. It was a discordant symphony, but he found it strangely beautiful, and utterly relaxing. It was here and only here, among the chaos and ugliness of war, that he found his inner peace. When he was on a field of battle, he knew who he was, and why he was on this earth. As horrible as it sounded, he needed war to stay sane.

Usually, he was a study in motion on the battlefield; never still, always moving through the enemy and mercilessly cutting them down with a lethal, predatory grace. Today was a different day. Today wasn't a day for mindless carnage; today he had only one fight in mind.

He stalked her across the battlefield. Not a hunter closing in on his prey, but an alpha sensing a battle for dominance with another alpha. He'd been waiting for this fight, itching for it since he'd learned she had come. He'd already prove himself the superior of every warlord gathered for this gods-forsaken war. But she was like him; a demigod, blessed with the strength and power of the immortals. She could give him a true challenge, and he was _dying_ for a challenge. Who better than Ares' daughter to give it to him?

He might just have to move this confrontation off the battlefield, he considered, taking another look at her. With those long, strong limbs toned from a lifetime of training and tanned from so much time out-of-doors… that ample chest beneath her breastplate [really, whoever started that ridiculous story about Amazons being one-breasted needed their eyesight and sanity tested]… the ferocity with which she fought, suggesting she'd be just as passionate in a different kind of battle altogether… He shook his head impatiently, absently killing a fool who attacked him. Getting distracted on the battlefield; very smooth, Achilles.

As Prince Achilles of Phthia, Lord of the Myrmidons, watched his Amazon fight and kill with reckless abandon [and yes, she was _his_, even though she wouldn't thank him for the possessive term], he couldn't help but smile to himself. Gods, she was magnificent. Strange that it had taken them so long to find each other, especially with his mother so anxious to see him safely settled and away from battle. Thetis had long feared that her only child would be killed in war, and she had done everything in her power to try to protect him, including encouraging him to marry and have a family. Ironic, really, that his mate should be an Amazon, and the daughter of the god of war.

He'd been waiting for this meeting, for her, for a very long time. Fates, he'd been hearing stories of her people all his life; that alone would be enough to convince him that it was destined they meet someday.

Achilles didn't remember much of his father; he'd only been a child when Peleus died. But he had a vague memory of sitting on his father's knee, listening to the king's stories of the famous Amazons. They were often known among their enemies as the Bitches of Scythia, because they fought with the mentality of a pack of she-wolves, working together to take down their opponents. Their archery skills, mobility as cavalry, and utter fearlessness in combat made them highly desirable allies, and once one had gained their loyalty, the Amazons would remain true to their allies until the bitter end. Peleus had never entirely liked or trusted the Amazons, but he had admitted that they were damned useful.

The stories had found him again as a youth. After Peleus died, Thetis had hidden Achilles in Skyros, with the royal women of King Lycomedes [incidentally, that had been a terrible idea of Thetis'; his true identity couldn't be hidden for long, especially not after he'd impregnated Lycomedes' daughter Deidamia]. While being trained in the household arts, the old eunuch in charge of the women's quarters had told stories to impart virtues and lessons to the girls. The Amazons had been held up as examples of the antithesis of femininity; they were called unnatural, immoral, and dangerous. As if that weren't enough to pique young Achilles' interest, the doddering old eunuch had proceeded to speak of Princess Penthesilea, eldest daughter of High Queen Otrere. The princess had had the audacity to challenge a respected warlord who'd come to Scythia to visit, and had actually engaged the man in combat! She had been impregnated at the age of fifteen by that same warlord, and instead of raising the triplets as any loving Greek woman would do, she had sent them off to their father, and only saw them rarely. She was, the eunuch had droned, the worst kind of evil.

Achilles had been fascinated with her. Even her name, which translated to mean "compelling men to mourn", enchanted him. He had determined then and there, as he sat among the other girls learning to spin thread, that he would find this Amazon princess and challenge her to combat. Despite everything his mother tried, Achilles knew he was destined for war. And from the stories he was told, this princess' path was similar to his own; was it so outlandish to believe their paths might someday cross?

He hadn't been free of the shadow of the Amazon when we came to the plains of Troy, either. Stories of the warrior women had spread through the Greek camp; tales of the days of old, when Priam had been allied to Queen Otrere. Then there had been the stories of Penthesilea herself, now High Queen; stories of the battle axe Ares himself had given her, the horse which had been the gift of Poseidon, the devastating beauty which had come from Aphrodite. She was a famous warrior, and everyone knew Amazons honored their alliances; was it possible that they would join the conflict in Troy?

When Achilles had heard that question, the hairs on the back of his neck had stood straight up; he could almost smell his destiny on the air. She would come; he knew she would come. If he couldn't resist the lure of this war, neither could she. He had been waiting his entire life for her; he had the feeling that the time had finally come for them to meet.

This wasn't just him over thinking things, either; he had confirmation that he and the Amazon were destined to meet. When Odysseus had found Achilles in Lycomedes' court, he had taken him to the centaur Chiron for training. It hadn't only been lessons in combat; Chiron had taught Achilles how to read the stars to divine the future, as well as the much more esoteric [and difficult] process of recalling memories that weren't from this lifetime. Chiron had told him that this lifetime would always be difficult, with his near-uncontrollable rage, but that if Achilles could learn to identify souls with whom he had traveled before, he could gather a family around himself to help him remain in control of his anger.

In the midst of all these abstruse studies, the centaur had revealed that Achilles' great destiny would find him at the gates of Troy. Achilles had at first assumed his mentor had meant some sort of epic battle, but no; according to Chiron and the stars, the battle was only his fate, the means by which he'd reach his destiny. No, his destiny was actually _her_, the soul with whom he'd been created at the dawn of existence.

Achilles, then eighteen years old, had scoffed at that. His destiny was a _woman_? What sort of destiny was that for a warrior? He could have a woman- or more than one- whenever he wished, and frequently did. Even if this woman was an Amazon, what could possibly be that different about her?

Now that he stood on the battlefield, only feet from her, though… He saw the differences. It wasn't just that she was an unparalleled warrior, an independent, powerful queen surrounded by hostile men. It wasn't even that he desired her, though Eros knew he burned for her. It was that, the moment he laid eyes on her, his heart whispered _there you are_. Some unknown part of him had awakened when he saw her; there was no explanation but that it was the bond, the tie that had kept them together through untold incarnations. He had loved her then, he loved her now, and he would love her again.

He circled the battlefield, watching her movements, learning her instincts. He felt stirrings in the depths of his mind; memories from a time before he was called Achilles, before the first people had laid eyes on the land now called Greece. He hadn't always been like this; in that other life he hadn't struggled so against his rage. But he had been just as fascinated with her then as he was now. She had looked different, then; fair and golden blonde where she was now tanned and dark, slender where now she was tall and strong. In that life she hadn't fought beside him in the infantry. She had been an assassin and spy; she had tried to end battles before he got to the field. But he had watched her train with weapons in that life, and echoes of that lethal grace still clung to her now. She looked like she was dancing. He had fallen in love with her as they danced, in that life; he wanted to dance with her again.

Smirking, he stepped forwards, unsheathing his swords.

"Well then, Scythian bitch, let's see how you do against a real man."  
>She whipped around, cutting down a would-be attacker. "Come closer and I'll crush you like the ant you chose as your standard, Maecenian dog."<p>

He bared his teeth in a feral smile, and they began their dance again.

* * *

><p>There was nothing about his current situation that was alright with him. It was nighttime; he <em>hated<em> the nighttime. All those long, silent hours with nothing to distract him, and sleep was often elusive so he couldn't make them go by more quickly. The dew had started to bead up on the grass he lay on; or perhaps that was blood. His lifeblood was pouring out of him, after all, instead of staying inside where it belonged. Worst of all, it was quiet. Oh gods, how Achilles hated and feared quiet.

It wasn't that he was a senseless brute who understood nothing but war. What he hated about peace was the stillness, the silence. When he was still, when it was too quiet, his thoughts had room to grow and flourish. When that happened, the uneasy feelings would return; the sense that part of him was missing, that he could search a lifetime and never find it again. He hated that incompleteness, that sense of losing himself. This was his secret, the reason he was the penultimate warrior; it was only in battle that he could regain his peace and inner silence.

The irony wasn't lost on him, that she had been the daughter of the god of war. Nor did it escape his notice that he himself had slain his last chance for peace. He had waited for her all his life, and he had been the one to end hers.

Fifteen days later, and he still had no idea how it had happened. Had the gods guided his blade? He had killed many men, many of them children of the gods, or at least beloved by them. Were the gods punishing him by making him kill his own beloved?

He didn't know how it had happened. One moment they had been sparring- evenly matched, perfect equals, neither able to maintain an advantage. In the next moment they were far too close, his sword was stuck fast, his nostrils were filled with the metallic tang of blood. And then she collapsed, panting and blinking back tears. He'd clutched at her, frantic, pleading with her to stay with him. He called her his Bell, told her she wasn't allowed to ring her own death knell; words he didn't consciously understand, but her eyes had softened and he understood that she remembered. She knew him as more than her killer- knew him for who and what he truly was to her. She knew, and she forgave him, and they would find each other again.

At least he hadn't had to wait long to join her, he mused as he stared at the stars overhead. The capital city of Ilium had fallen to the Greeks; the war would be over within hours. He wouldn't be there to see it. He'd joined the raiding party inside the ingenious but incredibly uncomfortable Trojan horse with the express intention that he wouldn't survive the battle. It was humiliating that a warrior of his renown should be taken down by as worthless a weakling as Paris… But in the end, it didn't matter. The important thing was, he'd been set free. He could go into that quiet, peaceful place that had so eluded him in life, and when the time was right he and his love would be reborn again. And this time, he wouldn't destroy it. He would find her again, and this time he would hold onto her and never, _ever_ let her go. She was his peace, and he wouldn't surrender her again.

"I'm coming…" he whispered, wondering if she could hear him, wondering if she would be waiting for him.

He closed his eyes, and surrendered to the quiet.


	5. Treasure Chest

**Author's Note**: Today's chapter is a bit different. I was having a conversation with my friend Sandra about reincarnation, and we started talking about the idea of what if people aren't the only ones to reincarnate? What if there are physical objects that follow one from lifetime to lifetime? I took that idea and ran with it, and thus, you have this chapter.

So yeah, in this chapter we're just following Misaki/Margaret/Seraphine/Penthesilea and her treasure chest from lifetime to lifetime. A couple members of the soul family are mentioned, specifically Shiro/Richard/Etienne/Achilles, Kasume/Eleanor, and Henri, but this is really about MMSP and her box.

**Images**: Remove all spaces.

The trunk— www. pier 1 Shandora- Mosaic- Butterfly- Trunk/ 2546298, default, pd. html? cgid= home_ office_ storage

X X X

_Pangaea— in the time of the Beginning _

Seana smoothed her hands over the lid, tracing the curlicues and butterflies' wings- singed, but still there. Holding her breath and bracing herself against the pain, she slowly opened the trunk. Her baby blanket, her mother's hairbrush, her brother's hunting knife. Tamiel had been killed, the rest of her family later slaughtered in the fire set by her unbalanced father, but her childhood treasure chest had survived, protecting the lost pieces of her heart.

Blinking back tears, Seana laid her son's ball in the trunk. Another piece of her heart, lost and destroyed… another memory for her trunk to protect.

X X X

_Lebanon— 729 BCE_

Livia leapt off the couch, gauzy skirts swirling about her legs as she crossed her bedchamber and threw open her makeup trunk. Impatiently, she pulled out the false bottom, setting it aside before reaching in to pull out the little glass vial, filled with a clear liquid.

She smirked, closing her fist around the precious bottle in triumph. It had cost her a fortune to create a poison strong enough to kill him, but it would be worth it. When the conquering hero swaggered into her chamber, she would be ready.

Her brother had bested her for the last time.

X X X

_Babylon— 2500 BCE_

"Fire!"

"We're under attack!"

Princess Enheduana burst through her door, ripping the golden key off her necklace. She threw open the lid of the trunk. Made of acacia wood, painted with whorls and butterflies, the delicate trunk hid weapons of steel. A fitting metaphor.

She had promised her father that she would play the lady, but this was no time to be a lady. The palace was already burning; if the enemy got in, they would rape and kill or enslave all the women. She would rather die fighting.

"Hello, my friends," she whispered. "One last battle, what say you?"

X X X

_Alexandria— 39 BCE_

Some of the choices were easy.

Her royal seal. Caesar's family pendant. Antony's ring. A statue of Isis, for protection.

Other choices were more difficult. Should she send them away with warm cloaks, or royal documents to enforce their authority? A scroll of myths and fantasies, or a history of their dynasty? Daggers to defend themselves, or money to ease their escape?

In the end, the royal trappings stayed out of Cleopatra's childhood trunk, abandoned in favor of Antony's cloak, her hairbrush and perfume. Better to send the children away with their parents' love, instead of used-to-be's and never again's.

X X X

_London— July 1944 CE_

Ava sat on the bed, stiff and straight and very, very still. If she didn't move, she was calm, and if she was calm, she could control her emotions. She needed control if she wanted to survive the next six months, all the months and years to come.

The miniature chest lay in her lap, still as beautiful as the day her brother had made it for her. Daniel wouldn't have a coffin; Normandy had taken that comfort away. The box holding his letters, the St. Christopher medal, the ring he had put on her finger, would have to suffice.

X X X

_Paris— 1573 CE_

Roxanne, Comtesse de Foix, had many jewelry boxes. But only one sat on her vanity. The jewels inside weren't her best or most expensive. She didn't even wear them often. But this was _his_ box.

Andrew hated Henri's present, its contents and meaning. When he was in Paris, Roxanne took care to lock the little box away. But Andrew was a diplomat, and often returned to England. When he was gone, the box returned to its place of honor.

Andrew was her soul's match. But he wasn't the only man who loved her; he wasn't the only man she loved.

X X X

_Constantinople— 537 CE_

There was much speculation about the contents of the locked box that sat on the Empress Theodora's vanity.

Cosmetics, the source of her legendary beauty? Poison, to eliminate rivals? Aphrodisiacs for her husband?

Alone in her suite, Theodora flipped the catch and gently opened the wooden box, inlaid with silver whorls and butterflies, to touch her hidden treasure.

When Justinian had asked what she wanted as a wedding present, she had asked for dirt from her garden in Thessaloniki. There she'd spent all the happiest moments of her life; she wanted a link to that happiness wherever life took them.

X X X

_Rome— 102 CE_

Trajan always said it's best to hide things in plain sight.

Antonia, ward and top spy of the Emporer, hadn't gotten where she was by ignoring her mentor's wisdom.

The box was made of acacia wood, inlaid with silver whorls and butterflies. It sat on her vanity, easy to mistake for a box of jewels or cosmetics.

Smiling secretively, Antonia opened the box, withdrawing parchment, ink and pen. No one knew her as anything but a wealthy Roman matron who had the Emporer's favor. She was in a perfect position to keep Trajan informed about his subjects and his city.

X X X

_Camp Pendleton, South Carolina— 2015 CE_

Rachel sat on the floor, tears in her eyes as she held the worn navy hoodie.

She only opened the trunk when Sully was gone. When he was home, she had him to curl up with. But when he was deployed… that was when the trunk opened, when she re-read his letters for the millionth time and cried into his old college hoodie.

They didn't discuss the trunk when he was home. But every time Rachel opened the trunk, there would be a new letter, a fresh hoodie.

She feared a future where she had nothing new in the trunk.


End file.
